


Misery is Next to Torment

by IowanFinch



Category: Misery - Stephen King, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IowanFinch/pseuds/IowanFinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone and injured, Harold Finch is kidnapped by his ‘number one fan’, Samantha Groves. Will Mr. Reese find his friend before it’s too late?<br/>Takes place in late-season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Mysterious Disciple**

 

Crisp, cool snowflakes landed softly upon Harold Finch’s face, mingling with hot tears and slick blood. Panic enveloped the injured man, his heart thudding impatiently against his chest as silence descended and the deafening crush of metal, plastic, and rubber faded into mere memory. Warm, vaporous gasps of life escaped from Finch’s trembling jaw; blood bubbling from deep within his lungs to spray a fine mist of red upon his face, staining his teeth and pale lips. Blue eyes searched frantically for order in a world of blur and confusion.

 

Finch’s ears pounded with every breath and beat of his startled heart, gentle birdsong morphing into a harsh cacophony of noise.

 

 _Pain_. Overwhelmingly hot, blistering, and unforgiving pain shattered the deceptive calm.

 

A cry of raw pain erupted from Finch’s throat, his mind suddenly registering that his body was broken and lost in the midst of rural New York. Terror gripped Finch’s heart, his narrow chest and stomach rising and falling in rapid succession. Finch’s eyes darted back and forth; a bland landscape of white and dull creams temporarily blinding him. The recluse swallowed hard as the smouldering wreck of his black Lincoln town-car came into focus. Thick red blood drew Finch’s gaze away from the smoke and fire, his stomach roiling as the vivid liquid trickled sickly and steadily onto the sweet virgin snow.

 

 _Cold_. Deathly and persistent – as piercing and as still as the grave.

 

Finch’s body shivered violently, his clothes wet from melting ice and cooling blood. The events leading up to the crash flooded through Finch’s head: the urgent number, the pelting snow…a persistent glitch in the satnav – breaks suddenly rendered unresponsive to his forceful kicks. A faulty car? Or, more likely, an advanced hack. _But by whom?_

 

 _Get up, move!_ Finch’s mind screamed at him to flee but his body refused, the odd feeling of detachment continuing to numb his nerves. He fumbled his arms weakly, whimpering as they failed to cooperate. _Why can’t I move?_ He shifted his hips in a vain effort to force his legs into action, but all feeling was gone – his limbs weighed down by exhaustion and splintered bones. He could feel the bruising and lacerations covering his face, a swift swelling in and around his forehead causing his eyelids to close. Hot tears leaked out from under Finch’s puffy eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

 

Finch rested his head against the snow, his body drained of all strength.

 

 _Help! Help me._ Finch’s plea went unanswered, the gentle swirl of wind drowning his ears. No Mr. Reese, no rescue in sight…and no Machine to protect him in the stark wilderness. _No. John will come…he always comes. Always._

 

Finch shivered, gasps and moans escaping into the cold air.

 

_Helpless, so helpless._

 

The numbness pervading his lower body travelled upwards, constricting his chest and forcing his breath out in painful stops and starts. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours. Or so it felt. Finch could no longer tell how long it had been since his body was thrust from the car; how long he had been lying in the harsh white trap. All that Finch knew now was that he was edging ever closer to a blissful release; he barely felt the pain of earlier, and he no longer feared the growing darkness.

 

Distant crunching caught the attention of Finch’s hazy mind. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. _Hello? Help me._ Words failed to materialise as the distinct sound of boots on snow grew closer. Finch gave a dull grunt, trying yet again to move. It was then that a hand, warm and gentle came to rest against his throat, fingers seeking and finding a feeble pulse.

 

A female voice emanated from the dark; innocent and youthful, the words warbling in Finch’s ears as his awareness dimmed. “Please,” he slurred, feeling the fingers shift to his face, cradling his cheek. “Don’t worry, Harold.” The foreign touch became ever tenderer: “I’m your number one fan.”

 

**To be continued…**


	2. Iowan Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone for their kind support over the last few months, particularly M_E_Lover.  
> I apologise for the short chapter, but I hope that it will reawaken my writing following a serious illness.
> 
> This is for M_E_Lover.

**Iowan Dust**

 

Finch sighed in frustration, trying and failing to unseal his eyes. He reluctantly lowered his weary head back onto the soft pillow, drawing in a deep and painful breath as he tested his tired muscles, his hands unable to do anything but grasp weakly at the warm fleece-lined blanket beneath his aching body. A thick patterned quilt lay heavily upon the damp, oversized flannel pyjama top that clung uncomfortably to Finch’s feverish skin. The slow tick of a lone clock rang loudly in Finch’s ears; the soft crackle of fire and the earthy smell of turf filled the room and assaulted his senses. Finch ran the tip of his tongue slowly, tentatively over chapped lips; his mouth unbearably dry, his throat as rough and as sharp as sandpaper. He struggled to swallow around the hardened lump that had settled in the pit of his parched gullet.

 

A quiet whisper, harsh and barely audible, breached the lonesome silence: “he – help…” The tenuous voice petered out, replaced by a breathless moan. Fear and an overwhelming feeling of dread coursed through Finch’s mind as his scattered thoughts failed to translate into words.

 

Where am I?

 

Blind. Effectively paralysed. Speechless.

 

 _Alone_.

 

“Baby wrens are born blind, Harry.” Finch felt soft and gentle fingers caressing his face, moaning in pleasure as an ice-cool cloth was placed upon his forehead. “They can’t open their eyes until they’re set free.” Through the haze of confusion and pain, the sweet voice was water in the desert for Finch. The retreating hand rested briefly on his shoulder before settling on his right hand. “I’ll let you rest now, Harry. You’re going to need your strength.”

 

 _Harry?_ The name was as familiar as Iowan dust – a piece of a scattered puzzle from another time, another place. It was the sound of home and innocence: of tender morning kisses and the warm unconditional love of a mother.

 

Harry? It meant comfort and safety – a flickering light in the dark and tangled forest of memories long abandoned, but never forgotten. Iowan dust…grit that never fades.

 

**To be continued...**

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, I hope that it's okay. Thanks so much for reading.


End file.
